Bedsheets
by hahahero
Summary: You're in love? Oh, but you're France. You can't be in love. FranceEngland


**characters/pairings:** France/England  
**warnings:** implied sex and talkin' about such things.  
**word count:** 773  
**summary**: This is the nonsense that the country of love himself cannot be in love.  
**notes:** A serious Francis and one-sided affection are both huge loves for me, it seems. So why not put both in a fic? Hopefully not OOC. Any reviews/little comments would be gorgeous.

**Bed-sheets.**

They used to never sleep together, he reminds himself.

They'd _get_ together—and that was the _nice _term for it—between tedious meetings or while their bosses met and discussed their joint politics or maybe after a few too many beers and glasses of wine, and they'd actually get on a proper bed for once. But they'd never really _sleep_, because for them, there were better things to do than lie on a soft, down bed and _sleep._

He tries to use that as consolation, but it's not that it matters, really.

_Really._

People like him need no such things, he tells himself. He needs no cuddling, no tired smiles, needs no one whispering sweet nothings in his ears while he drifts off to sleep. It makes him feel _empty_ to acknowledge that he has none of this, but he thinks that maybe if he can manage to trick himself into believing these lies for a long enough time, they'll start to feel like the truth soon.

But the truth is, he really thinks about it—all of it, l'amour and all of its complications—_too much._

Francis reminds himself of what he is then—a country with better things to worry about than some barbarian islander across the Channel—and laughs because he realizes he's being too damn sentimental, and because the thought of loving England—_England!—_is just too damn funny. It all never really works though, these mind trick he tries to persuade himself of England with, and so he changes his tactics, accepting reality instead, and tries again and again to make a dream come true. He looks at himself in the mirror and mouths words, soundless words that even unspoken can make his throat run dry and his tongue feel thick. He sighs dramatically, runs his fingers through his hair just to make the silky blond strands flounce around, but still he can't bring himself to even speak with his bathroom mirror.

So Francis stands there, mouthing _I love you_ at a piece of glass.

He feels foolish like this—the feeling of being controlled isn't a new one, but this time it's not unpleasant, and tossed together with his lovestruck sickness and he suddenly feels like a walking romance novel and it makes him want to throw up. _It's love, _he tells himself, _love,_ and all the while feeling like a silly little kid talking about a middle school date. He tries talking about it all—to Gil, to Toni, but they just laugh and clap him on the back and suggest that they go drinking tonight and maybe hook up with some chicks at the bar, and Francis can feel it hurt. He's even tried telling Alfred, which turned out to be an utter mistake when the kid had just _chortled _and told Francis to _dude, just stick to the whole sex deal,_ because it—_shit_—it suited him better.

Francis can _feel it hurt._

Things change, though, and they do sleep together now, _somewhat_, and he thinks he can find a little solace in the thought after all, even if something inside him still clenches when Arthur takes his smiles as only ever inviting and lewd and not warm and content and everything else in the world Francis meant it to be, even if by the time he wakes up in the morning, Arthur is already long since dressed and gone.

He rolls over then, from his back to his side, and glances through the darkness at the sleeping Arthur by his side—_by his side_—at sandy blond hair slick with perspiration and thin lips pursed and slightly open and eyebrows—_Jesus, _those eyebrows are still ever the same, thick and unruly and knit in a frown, the frown of the perfect English gentleman.

Without meaning to, he smiles, and all of a sudden feels like whacking Arthur on the shoulder because he made him smile like an idiot at a sleeping country with messy blond hair and bushy eyebrows.

The thought just sets him smiling all over again, and he lies like that for a while, softened blue eyes stupidly grinning at Arthur's sleeping figure before the spell finally breaks and he closes his eyes and sighs. Francis pulls up his—their—blanket to his chin, and snuggles into the sheets, deciding to try to get some sleep before their meeting tomorrow.

The last thought on his mind is that—well, at least they can sleep together—and while it's not anything near perfection, being able to watch Arthur's chest gently move up and down is very much enough for Francis—for now.


End file.
